The Witch and The Detective: One Last Game
by the consulting werewolf
Summary: The third, and final, installment of The Witch and The Detective trilogy. Moriarty is back but Sherlock and Hermione are no longer playing. The game just got very dangerous and even more personal. Who will be the last player left? In midst of it all, Sherlock feels no longer like himself.
1. Chapter 1

John squints. His eyesight still has not completely adjusted to the dark. He can smell chlorine but is too cold. Too cold, really, unnaturally cold. The cold permeated his soul and a deep melancholy took residence there. It is an odd sensation. He cannot remember feeling this hopeless ever. Not even in the moments that prefixed the bullet that lodged in his flesh. He twists his limbs, he realises he is tied with iron shackles. He blinks some more. He sees a faint light now. A pale figure shapes the light. He blinks, trying to erase the heavy hopelessness settled in his guts. He frowns when he realises it is in the shape of a leopard.  
A leopard? Why is there an astral leopard crouching around him? He tries to drag out the last memory he had before waking up here. Okay, he starts, he was at the cemetery, Mary called, he had answered, their conversation was brief, and then he remembers nothing. A chill settles in that has nothing to do with the external temperature.  
Moriarty. Chorine. No.  
John knows this place. The sense of de ja vu lodges firmly in his gut. He shakes his head and blinks a few more times to figure out shapes in the darkness. He is strapped to a chair. Iron cuffs tying his limbs down to a heavy metal chair. Then, he realises the darkness is shifting. It is moving. He frowns. The darkness is moving as the leopard pads along an invisible circular path. He still feels amazingly cold. And the melancholic fear grips him without any rhyme or reason. He is very confused.

"Back to where we began?" Hermione asks as Sherlock hails down a cab.  
"That is where the problem lies," Sherlock replies, "I don't know if he means the first time at St Barts or at the poolside where he first revealed himself."  
"Okay, you take Harry and go to the pool. I will drop by at St Barts."  
He whips his around, frowning. Before he can protest, she says, "Look I will be fine, but please, please take Harry with you."  
Sherlock grumbles, "I am eighty percent sure they are at the pool. But to be super sure someone needs to check St Barts. We will just be wasting time if we run to both places."  
Harry isn't too happy but he nods. He knows she can take care of herself, even though it does not make him happy. He says, "Yes, Sherlock, she is right."  
"Yeah," she steps forward and places a hand one Sherlock's cheek, "We will save John. Text me the address, okay?" She removes her hand and turns around, looking for an isolated place to apparate.  
Sherlock frowns at her receding figure hurrying down the pavement. He is torn between the urge to follow her and go ahead with his plan. Harry helps him in deciding as he hails down a cab and shouts at him, "Come on!"  
Sherlock and Harry get into the cab. Sherlock gives the address of the pool as the driver takes off. He is engulfed in worry and he does not remember being this conflicted. His hands start shaking, so he jams it in his coat, lest Harry see him.  
Harry did not see him but he could guess at his state. He says, "She will be okay. She is Hermione Granger, the bravest and wisest witch I ever had the fortune to befriend. I know she will be okay." He fists his hand and places it under his chin as he frowns. He cannot be sure about how will she fare. He is also not sure what awaits him—them.  
Sherlock nods. He knows. But this feeling will not go away. He tucks his chin and falls into a spiral of swirling questions and doubt. He hopes he gets to John in time. He also sends a quick text to Hermione. And then sends another text.

Hermione apparates inside the hospital, Muggles be damned. Thankfully the lab she apparates into is empty. She runs towards the lab Sherlock liked to use. Before she pushes the door open she raises her wand aloft. She nudges the door and jumps in. Relief exhales her lung as she sees it is empty. As she lowers her wand, her eyes fall on a piece of paper propped against a test tube rack. She wonders if it is just there like that or else it is there with intentions.  
She edges closer and as extra protection, uses magic to lift the note. The paper unfolds and there are only three words written on it. "Tick tock Granger."  
She shakes her head. Sure enough, Moriarty knew they would split up. And sure he knew she would come here. She grabs the paper physically and crumples it. For self-satisfaction she sets it on fire. Grudgingly she admits to herself—yes, okay Jim Moriarty has to be the smartest arsehole she had to come across. Besides Sherlock Holmes of course.  
At the last strain of thought, she is reminded to check her phone. Sure enough, he had sent her the address. And another message.

John tries very hard to fight it. It is weighing him down. No, no, no! He has a baby on the way, he has a wife he loves very much and he has a best friend who he cannot abandon. He cannot die. Not here. Not in this cold, suffocating darkness. He needs to stay awake and expel this sadness. He tugs at the cuffs. It does not work. Obviously magic.  
Then the astral leopard vanishes. His head falls back. He hears a sucking noise. And then he feels as if all the happiness is being sucked out on him. And life too. Maybe he will die sitting in this cold, metal chair.  
But then he hears a voice. It had been deadly quite till now. It is Moriarty. Shit.

Sherlock and Harry run in. The doors bang open. They both halt in their tracks. Harry, in fear of the known and Sherlock in the fear of the unknown, of the sight in front of him.  
John is sitting on an iron chair of sorts, his limbs cuffed. His head is drooping, eyes blinking as if he is trying to see through fog. Surrounding him, from three directions, are floating tall, grey, skeletal, hooded figures. Each time they are moving, John is moving, as if pulled on by marionette strings and a weird, foggy strand is leaving John's body and being sucked in by those creatures.  
A cold sweat breaks on Sherlock's forehead as the horror of the scene settles in his gut. Harry says, his voice shaking, "Those are dementors."  
"Are they dangerous?" Sherlock asks, dreading the answer.  
"We use them to sentence our prisoners to death."  
A door opens behind John and Moriarty enters, followed by Blaise. Moriarty smiles and says, "Ahh, nostalgia is such a bitch. Is this not nice Sherly?"  
"Very," Sherlock replies, with the confidence he needed. Where is Hermione? Did she get his other text?  
"You bought Harry. Where is your girlfriend? Not at the hospital I suppose?"  
Sherlock is a bit taken back but does not show it. He says, "So very clever of you. Great, really."  
Moriarty dips his head. Sherlock resists the urge to roll his eyes, he says, "I am here, now let John go."  
"Ohohoho, not so fast. Blaise? I think I have scared Sherly enough, let out the Patronus. We don't want Dr Watson dead. Yet."  
Out of Blaise's wand shoots out a pale bluish light that swirls about till it takes the shape of a feline of some sorts. Sherlock squints his eyes. It is a leopard.  
Harry explains, "That is a Patronus. It will keep away the dementors. Temporarily though."  
"Blaise, please take out the spare. I got no business with him," Moriarty says with glee.  
"Stupefy!" Blaise shouts, his wand pointing at Harry. Before he could raise his wand, Harry keels over.  
Even if his mind was screaming danger, Sherlock stays put. He is arms-less, but he knows she will get here. But soon a bullet whizzes past him and sinks into the cement three inches from his shoes. Opposite him, Moriarty roars in laughter, "Did I say I have other help?"  
"This is unfair!" Sherlock barks. Anger bubbles in him furiously. He ducks another bullet when the doors blast open with a loud crash. The hinges get blown off, a few bricks too and smokes fills the area. He spots a blur of curly hair fly past him. He smiles, his witch is here. And trust her to make an entrance.  
Hermione had heard the first bullet. She decides to reject the stealth plan and opts to do it loud. So with a single Bombarda Maxima, she knows she created enough distraction. The first thing she spots is an unconscious Harry, who she realises is stupefied. She knows she has a small window, so she first renervates Harry and then rushes towards Sherlock. Saying nothing, besides a smile, she thrusts the gun in his hand. He returns the smile with another one. She got his other text.  
He aims at the catwalk above. Before the hired gun can take aim, Sherlock shoots once. The bullet lodges in his right shoulder.  
She says, "Good one."  
He says, "Thank you. Great entrance though."  
"Trust her to make one," Harry joins them with a grin, brushing the brick dust off his jacket and hair.  
"Brilliant! A trio of sorts isn't it Blaise?"


	2. Chapter 2

"Brilliant! A trio of sorts isn't it Blaise?" Moriarty exclaims loudly. The agitation clear in his voice.  
They were ready, with their wands and gun raised. Harry says, "Go save John, I will hold back Zabini."  
"But—", Hermione hesitates.  
"What?"  
"Nothing," she nods to Sherlock to starts rushing to John's aid. She only hesitated because if there one spell she could not manage to cast successfully, was this, the Patronus against dementors. But she has no other choice now. She clamps down on the hopelessness starting to bubble inside.  
Spells fly back and forth between Harry and Blaise with rapid intensity as they near John and Moriarty. Sherlock suddenly feels tired. A sadness grips him that he fails to explain. He looks at Hermione for help. She says, "It is okay. It is just a scare tactic these creatures use. You are okay."  
He nods and points his gun at Moriarty. The arch enemies eye each other. Sherlock smirks, "No weapon? Oh, I forget, you hate spoiling your precious Westwood suits."  
While Blaise was at the furthest corner fighting off Harry who had inched closer from the side, Moriarty had shifted his position from behind John to the door he entered from. Sherlock slowly walks closer to him.  
"Haha no. Luckily this is not Westwood. And this is a gun," Moriarty takes out the gun tucked in his waistband, "I came prepared."  
"To kill me, yes, yes," Sherlock kept talking so Hermione can do her part in rescuing John.  
Hermione is not going to deny. The effect is heavy on her. She is cold and miserable, and her scar iches. A dementor notices her presence, it turns its hooded face to her. She gulps. It gets closer as all the misery in her wants to burst out and she wants to curl in a ball and cry. But no, she cannot. She raises her wand and tries thinking about her happiest memories. She squeezes her eyes shut, and takes a deep breath. Even though she cannot see it, she can feel it inching closer with the eternal chill and putridity it radiates.  
Happy. All that made her happy. Her wedding day. The birth of her first child. Knowing Harry was alive that day in Hagrid's arm. The birth of her second child. Her promotions. When her parents got their memories back and forgave her. When Sherlock called her "friend". That night in front of the Eiffel Tower. Her friends, her family. And Sherlock.  
A new energy suffuses her, powers her. She opens her eyes. All the three dementors are looking at her. But she is ready. The power flows through her and out through the wand when she screams, "EXPECTO PATRONUM!" An otter rushes out of the wand tip, with speed and runs headfirst into the sinister trio of dementors. The creatures skid across the water.  
They fly back but ricochet, trying to break through her spell. Hermione deftly uses the wand, and with powerful stabs, tries to drive the foul creatures through the hole she had previously made. She smiles at her little victory of conjuring up the Patronus when something whizzes past her right forearm and leaves a trail of white hot pain in its wake. She winces, the spell stops. She looks down to see blood trickling down her sleeve. A bullet must have flew past her, slicing through her skin in its trail.  
Moriarty knew Sherlock was just wasting time so Hermione does her magic. He saw her conjuring the almost-perfect Patronus. An idea forms in his mind. He takes an aim at her, only to maim not to kill. It works. She drops the spell and Sherlock gets distracted. Ah, a development.  
Sherlock rushes over to Hermione, who is standing, still trying to use her injured arm to conjure another Patronus. He unwinds his scarf and presses it to her wound. Moriarty comments to himself, how touching.  
Hermione mutters, "I am okay."  
And then things happen simultaneously.  
Harry sees the dementors approaching Sherlock and Hermione. He takes his attention away from Blaise to save his friends. He shouts, "Expecto Patronum!" and he is glad it worked when a stag shoots out of his wand tip.  
Moriarty raises his gun to aim at Sherlock. Hermione sees it.  
Hermione turns her attention away from the dementors to Moriarty, the killing curse on the tip of her tongue. He kidnapped her daughter, killed Molly. No way is she going to let him survive if he tries killing Sherlock, again. A blind rage fills her.  
Blaise sees Hermione raising her wand at his friend. He forgets Harry for a while and apparates beside his friend. He pushes back his friend just in time when Hermione's lips move and a rush of green light erupts from her wand and instead of hitting her target, squarely hits Blaise in his chest.  
Blaise drops to the ground, the ghost of the silent scream etched on his face. Moriarty screams, "NO!"  
Sherlock turns around, just in time to see Blaise falling. Harry whips his head around at the sound of Moriarty's scream, after he manages to round the creatures with his patronus stag as guard. And the effect of what she did finally hits her.  
She used the killing curse. An Unforgiveable Curse. She killed a human being, no matter how deplorable. The body of her victim, lies there, rigid and unmoving.  
Moriarty falls to his knees and clutches at Blaise's shirt. He cries, "No! No! You are not dead! Blaise! Not you!" He does not care his nemeses are here as tears roll down his cheeks. He lost his only friend. The few people he ever loved and cared for—he could count on his one hand and Blaise was one of them. The pain of loss rips at his insides.  
Hermione starts shaking all over. Her wand hand drops. Remorse hits her like a tsunami wave. Before she can let it drag her underneath, Sherlock wraps his arms around her shoulder. She tucks her head at his neck and tries taking steady breaths.  
Harry puts his hand on her shoulder and says, quietly, "We need to go." He walks over to John and releases the shackles. He pulls John's weight on his shoulder. He uses magic to lighten the weight and passes him over to Sherlock.  
Sherlock nods. He wraps one of John's arm over his shoulder. Hermione stood, with her back at the scene. She could not bring herself to look at it again. Sherlock glances over his shoulder at Moriarty. He feels a bit sad for him. Like him, Moriarty had one best friend. On a level, he knows how Moriarty might feel, or rather feels like now.  
Moriarty raises his head. His teary eyes flashing with repressed anger. He says, in a deadly quiet voice, "It is not over, Sherlock." He closes Blaise's eyelids with his fingertips and leans down to kiss on his forehead. He stands up and with a quiet dignity, exits the pool area.  
Harry says, "I will call the authorities. Go home Sherlock. Take care of John. And Hermione." He takes away his hand from her shoulder. Hermione takes another arm of John's and between them they slowly lift him up and walk away. Sherlock starts to object, on account of her injury but she shakes her head. She feels numb to all externalities.  
They stumble out of their battlefield.

**A/N. OH LORD I AM SO IDIOTIC. I noticed a glaring mistake I did last chapter. First I wrote John was on a wooden chair, then I wrote he was on a metal one *facepalm* **  
**I made changes. Ehehe.**


	3. Chapter 3

It is been two days since the death of Blaise Zabini. Since his immediate family members were dead and Marianne Bernard could not publicly come to arrange the funeral, Zabini's friends were called. Then again, the former Slytherin hardly had any friends. And the only friend alive to do so was Draco Malfoy.  
It was a very hush-hush affair. Since the return of Blaise Zabini had not been publicised, the funeral was short and quick. Draco went because he was asked to by Harry. And he went, because at some point of their lives, however arrogant or dismissive Blaise was, he was Draco's only friend. So nostalgia and the wish to hang on to something that no longer existed but felt like a remnants of a broken dream, compelled Draco to go to the Wiltshire Public Cemetery on a rainy January day to bury the ashes of Blaise Zabini. He said nothing. Did not even cry or show remorse. All he felt was a heaviness which wanted to drown him.  
So, in spite of himself, he finds himself wide awake at midnight, with a thousand thoughts wearing him out and the absolute lack of alcohol at Malfoy Manor. He did not want to go on a pub crawl, but neither could he stay at home alone. Then Draco gets an idea. He rises from his bed and tiptoes to his son's bedroom. When he sees that Scorpius is peacefully asleep, he returns to his bedroom and changes out of his pyjamas into Muggle clothes. Then he apparates.

Hermione and Sherlock had two days that were spent in fear and sometimes, wild speculations. They never admitted it to themselves. They took precautions instead.  
Hermione sent Rose to live with her in-laws, knowing she will be best safe there, even though this detachment would be hard on both mother and child. She created some charms around her and Sherlock's flat. And as an extra something she added an extra layer of magic to the ring she gave to Sherlock.  
Sherlock told Lestrade that Blaise was dead. He asked Lestrade to arrange security for John, even though he had a hunch that Mycroft is already covering them. Lestrade insisted on Sherlock having some bodyguards but he waved Lestrade off. Bodyguards are cumbersome. Even when one is targeted by psychopaths.  
As to the other elephant in the room—both expertly waltzed around the feelings that were blooming. Sherlock told himself they were stupid and unnecessary, and like hay fever would go away. Hermione told herself that this was not the apt circumstances to think about these things. So they appeared controlled and pretended like nothing happened.  
John was in St Mungo's for two days. Mary was told he was recuperating in Sherlock's flat. And due to her pregnancy which was in the last trimester, she could not physically visit but had to depend on Hermione and Sherlock for updates. She was glad when John came back home in one piece.  
The ever-yet-hardly observant John felt the tension between them, like always. The first night Hermione told them what the creatures where.  
The trip to St Mungo's was silent. John was revived as soon as they found an empty bed for him. He woke up to find a heavily dusty Sherlock and Hermione looking over him. She let out a sigh and he sat down on a chair beside.  
John croaked, "What happened?"  
Sherlock gave him a short recount of the occasion. He asked, "How did you end up there?"  
"I had finished talking to Mary," John replied, "When I was approached by this red head girl, then I lost unconscious. Next I woke up in that pool. God, I was feeling so bad. What was it?"  
"Dementors," Sherlock said and looked towards Hermione for an explanation.  
She gave a sad smile and said, "A dementor is a non-being and dark creature, considered one of the foulest to inhabit the world. Dementors feed upon human happiness, and thus cause depression and despair to anyone near them. They can also consume a person's soul, leaving their victims in a permanent vegetative state, and thus are often referred to as "soul-sucking fiends" and are known to leave a person as an 'empty-shell'. It is a blessing we weren't too late. I don't understand one thing though…"  
"What?"  
"Dementors were supposed to be becoming extant. The few left are in Azkaban."  
"Extant or not," John shivered, "I never want to feel like that again."  
A couple minutes passed in silence. Sherlock ran his fingers through his hair, he looked at Hermione and said, "You need to get that looked at."  
Suddenly she remembered her flesh wound. She muttered, "Yeah, I will get hold of a nurse."  
"No," he stood up, "Let me. The ones in bright robes, got it." He walked out of the room.  
She slumped down on the chair he had previously occupied. She saw the bemused expression on John's face. She asked, "What?"  
"He cares about you," he replied, with unconcealed glee.  
She found herself blushing with no coherent comeback. She softly said, "John, I care about him too."  
He grinned, "I know!"  
She narrowed her eyes, her heart in her mouth, about to ask John to explain himself when Sherlock re-entered the room, a Healer in tow.  
The young woman asked, "So, this gentleman says a bullet grazed your upper right arm. If you will please?"  
Hermione stood up and took off her jacket, lightly wincing when the fabric rubbed against her raw wound. The Healer said, after inspecting her wound, "Ah, a little bit of Dittany would do the trick effectively and some clean bandages."  
Sherlock looked over at Hermione as the Healer put a few drops of Dittany on her arm. She winced, a sharp hiss escaped from between her teeth. He saw how the flesh, until raw and messy with clotted blood, sizzled and knotted itself, leaving a shiny new scar. He realises this must have been the same potion she had used on him all those days ago. He silently applauded the awesomeness of magic again.  
The Healer wipes away the excess blood and conjures some bandages around her arm. She then tells Hermione, "Now, change the bandage after you shower. Then let it dry thoroughly before you bandage it again, okay?"  
Hermione nodded. The Healer continued, "Excuse me for saying so, but are you the famous Hermione Granger?"  
Hermione smiled, "Yes."  
"Oh my Merlin. What an honour!" She then enthusiastically shook hands with one half of the Golden Trio.  
After she left, John said, "That was fascinating but what do we tell Mary?"

It has been two day since. Sherlock had gone back to the pool with Lestrade and Harry. They located the hired gun, who had miraculously escaped after Sherlock shot him. Harry had wiped his memory after his confession. He was hired by Sebastian Moran.  
Hermione is downstairs, sometime after midnight, reading The Moonstone and wondering what Sherlock is doing when one of her spell raises an alarm. Someone just apparated inside 221 Baker Street. She jumps out of her sofa and rushes out of her apartment with her wand to find Draco Malfoy tied up and wriggling on the floor. She lowers her wand and releases him. He stands up and says, "Hey."


	4. Chapter 4

"Hey yourself. What are you doing here?" Hermione asks, brushing off the dust on Draco's sleeve. She notices his attire, "Are you wearing denims?"  
"Before you start, these are comfortable as hell. I don't mind Muggle clothing," he retorts, mocking hurt.  
She smirks. She beckons him to follow her to her apartment. He walks in and sits down on the sofa. She goes in her kitchen. He asks, "Where's Rose?"  
"At my in-laws," she replies, "How much sugar do you take in your tea?"  
"Ha, no tea. You got anything stronger?"  
She raises her eyebrows. Okay she might have a brand new bottle of St George's Chapter 14 somewhere. She brings out the bottle and walks in the living room. "I got whiskey. Muggle whiskey though."  
"Doesn't matter. Alcohol is alcohol."  
"Yeah, alcohol is beyond the fields of wizardry and racism."  
They laugh as she measures two small pegs for them. "Cheers," he says before downing the entire content in one single gulp. The liquid burns down his throat but damn it feels great.  
She takes a little sip and looks at him with a little awe. She asks, "Everything okay Draco?"  
He sighs deeply, "I buried my former best friend today." He pours himself another drink and leans back.  
"Oh." Sip. "I can't imagine how you must feel."  
"I don't think anyone can. Do you want to know something funny?"  
"What?"  
"Blaise actually detested Death Eaters. I think our friendship started deteriorating when I became one…now that I think of it."  
"He was? Huh, you learn something new every day."  
"Huh," he clinks his glass with hers. They both finish their drinks. He notices the bandage around her arm, "That happen when you were fighting Blaise? Harry said you got hurt."  
"Yeah," she finishes her second drink and pours another one, "Jim Moriarty shot at me to distract Sherlock."  
"Huh." He leans back and sips his drink quietly, ruminating.  
She leans back, her head dangerously close to his. She is not drunk, but her inhibitions were slowly eroding. She asks, "What's wrong with you?"  
"I don't know. I just don't. I just feel like the last ties to my past got cut today."  
"And it is my fault." She sighs, unconsciously rubbing her scar.  
Draco looks at her, his heart swelling. Till now he had not let himself think about the fact that Hermione Granger was responsible for the death of his former schoolmate. He sighs, "I was trying not to think about it."  
"Why not? Oh, I did your kill your friend. Broke a law. Went scot-free because why tarnish the reputations of a dead person and one-half of Golden Trio?"  
"Tarnish? Your reputation, maybe. Not his."  
"Hmm. It's just…death. I never thought I would, I never thought I was capable of it."  
"Harry said that your actual target was Moriarty, so, you know, you did not mean it for Blaise especially."  
"Draco," she rubs her face, as she gets herself another drink, "I took a life. I don't think I can ever come back from that. It will forever be there, as ashes underground and as a memory in my mind."  
Draco sighs, "And how do I feel? I don't know. I lost that one, okay very horrible, connection to Hogwarts."  
"Oh. But hey!" she perked up all of a sudden, "I am from your Hogwarts too!"  
He laughs, "Oh Merlin I'd forgotten about you!"  
"Am I that forgettable?" she mocks getting offended and makes a pout.  
He laughs some more at the expression she is pulling. He thinks she rather looks very cute. She thinks he has never laughed like this in her presence. He looks attractive when he does that.  
He places his palm, flat, on her neck. He can feel her pulse throbbing. He whispers, leaning in closer, "Fuck no."  
She smiles at him. Her heart rate kicks up. His warm, whiskey infused breath blows softly on her face. The heat, the whiskey lulls her into a weird trance. She leans forward and winds her fingers at the nape of his neck, toying with his white-gold locks.  
Then she does not remember who took the first step, but their lips meet and the barriers get torn down. The glasses slide on to the floor as hands slide over fabric and skin. The liquid seeps into the rug as tongues fight for dominance.  
He kisses along her jawline, along her neck. He pushes aside the sleeve of her sweater to taste more of her skin. She lets out a little moan. It felt good. But she wants more of him. She grabs his head and brings him back to face her. His pupils are dilated and his skin is flushed. Merlin, he is gorgeous. She puts her lips on his, less gentle this time. She nips at his lower lip as he growls. He finds her bare skin under all the material and nearly bruises her. Sherlock touched her there once too.  
Then a fragment of a memory floats to the surface and she breaks their passionate embrace. No, what is she doing. She says, "No. I can't do this. Draco, we can't do this."  
His lungs are still fighting for oxygen as he breathlessly says, "Why? Because I am married? What if I wasn't?"  
She does not look at him, lest she give herself away. He would read the answer in her eyes. She says, "Draco…"  
"You still wouldn't, would you? Because I am a former Slytherin, a Death Eater?"  
"Merlin, Draco! No! It is not that. I can't…"  
"Is it because of…" he guessed it. He falls back into the cushions. He sighs and rubs his face, "Guess I am too late, aren't I? If only…"  
She stands up and pushes her hair back. She says, softly, "You are welcome to stay the night here. Goodnight."  
She uses magic to float some blankets and pillows to him. He does not reach for them so she places them beside him. Then she swiftly walks to her bedroom and shuts the door behind her. She crawls into her bed and takes a few, long breaths. She wants to and also does not want to. She wonders, angrily, what this feeling is—being confused and being annoyed at that confusion.  
Damn it Sherlock Holmes!

Next morning, Draco wakes up with a headache. He decides to leave without waking Hermione up. After all, he is responsible for his own heartbreak. No reason to rub salt into his wound. Does he regret coming over? He mulls over the question for a few beats. The answer comes back as no. No, he did not regret it. If this is the proverbial nail in the coffin, then let it be. He stands up and stretches. Time to go home. He decides against apparating, his headache will only increase a hundredfold. He yawns, Muggle transport then.  
He softly stalks out of her flat and closes the door behind him. He gets to the main entrance. He zips his jacket as he walks out into the early morning chill. The cold air feels good in a way. A sad smile curves his lips. They were never meant to be and he always knew it, didn't he? But chasing certain dreams is an addictive habit. And Draco Malfoy will always be in love with Hermione Granger.  
He does not get to see a certain face staring down at him from the first floor window.

Sherlock wakes up, again, in his living room with stale air choking him. The weak sunshine illuminates the room slightly. He walks up, dragging himself rather, to go open a window. As he grabs the panes, his eye falls on the person who walks out of the main entrance to 221 Baker Street. The whitish blonde hair is familiar. His blood runs both hot and cold when he recognises the man. He staggers back. He rubs his lower lip in consternation. The danger of knowledge, that he knew this was going to happen. Then why is he so surprised and, astonishingly, hurt?


	5. Chapter 5

He could not stand at his best friend's grave and mourn him. Instead that bloody Draco Malfoy got to be there. He saw it all, but no one saw him. He was angry. So angry, and also sad. It was a sadness that broke through and made a home in his bones. A few hot tears roll down his face as he saw the casket of the first and last friend he ever had, getting swallowed by the earth, one shovelful of dirt at a time.  
Marianne was there too. She was silently weeping. Her eyes were focused but he could see the madness churning in them. She said, "Jim?"  
"Yes?"  
"When the time comes, there is something I want to do. Promise me, you won't try stopping me."  
He sighed. He knew she was out for vengeance. But he did not exactly want to stop her either, "Okay I promise."  
"Thank you Jim." She intertwined her fingers with his.  
So they stood there, under the rain, holding hands, far from the grave of the person they loved the most. And Sherlock Holmes and Hermione Granger were going to pay.

Ron is going for his lunch when an alarm went off all over the Ministry. People started rushing everywhere, and chaos ensued. Ron managed to grab a subordinate by the collar. He asks, "What is happening?"  
"Robbery at the Department of International Magical Cooperation!" the young man wriggled out of Ron's grip and runs off to see the scene of the crime.  
Ron decides to follow. As he jogs along he sees a familiar head of black hair. He shouts, "Harry!"  
Harry Potter turns around. He spots his friend and waits for him to join him before they start walking together. He says, "You know what is going on?"  
"Yes. But I don't understand why anyone would steal anything from that department!"  
"The robbery apparently happened at the International Magical Office of Law."  
"What is there that anyone would want?"  
Levin Dobrev calmly walks towards them from the opposite direction after spotting them. He says, "It is not a robbery."  
Ron frowns, "Then?"  
"Someone broke in, yes, but not to steal anything. That someone tried opening the personal locker of the head of the department. That triggered an alarm."  
"Why would anyone want to open Percy's locker?" he comments as he speeds up to check on his elder brother. Harry follows him.  
As Ron gets closer, the crowd thickens, making it impossible for him to walk. Levin, who had followed them, magically enhances his voice and says, "The Head Auror is here, please make way and disperse. Come on, move it!"  
Harry raises an eyebrow at Levin, who simply shrugs, his face, as usual, passive. But it works. The crowd parts like the Red Sea as the three of them hurry along.  
Percy Weasley, the new Head of the Department, had heard the announcement. He opens the door, with his hair messy and glasses askew. He smiles weakly at his brother and brother-in-law, "Good thing you came here first! I was going to call for you."  
They enter and Levin closes the door behind. For extra precaution he even charms the office so no sound can go out. Ron crosses his arms as he surveys over the office. The locker behind the desk was open, chairs were overturned and he or she had broken an ink pot, its blue ink seeping in the carpet. He says, "So what is so valuable that you need a locker for it?"  
Percy frowns, "Important international documents. But that is not the point. You may have heard that nothing has been taken."  
"Are you sure?" Harry asks, "Those are important papers."  
"No I checked. Nothing has been taken. However…" Percy turns around and takes something out from the locker. Caught between his index finger and thumb, is an A6 sheet of paper, a light dove grey in colour. He gives it to Harry.  
Harry takes the paper. His eyebrows crinkle in consternation at the words scribbled upon it. Percy says, "Whoever came here, left it. And I don't have any idea what is means."  
Harry says, "It is an address in a place in York, North Yorkshire."  
"It could mean something," Ron says, "Or it could be one bloody stupid hoax."  
"There is only one way to find out."

Hermione wakes up, tired and groggy. As last night's fiasco floats to the surface, an involuntary groan escapes from her throat. Way to go Hermione, she scolds herself. She wakes up and walks to the living room, trepidation filling her. She, however, had a feeling that she won't find Draco on her sofa.  
And yes, she was right. Her sofa is empty. The only proof of anyone occupying was the one cushion out of place. And oh, the whiskey vapours wafting of her rug. She shakes her head. Magic can take care of it. She flops down on the sofa and clutches the misplaced cushion to her chest. "Why Hermione, why?" she whispers. For all her smartness, she does amazingly stupid things when it comes to her "love" life. Draco's heartbroken face refuses to leave her alone.  
Then she laughs, mirthlessly. If someone had told her twenty years ago that Draco Malfoy would be heartbroken over her and she would feel bad, so very bad, about it, she would have sent birds at them. She sighs, twenty years. So much had changed in twenty years. Change is the only constant—now who said that, she wonders.  
Maybe she should go check on Sherlock today? Wait, they are caught in an awkward vortex again. No matter how coordinated they can be when it comes to combat, as soon as they were back to a semblance of normalcy, they would be back to their personal tango of yes-no-maybe. Fucking hell, she fumes. If he can only let himself. Or if she can let herself be, what is holding her back? She cannot go back, neither can she move forward. An impasse then. She presses the pillow against her face and the angry groan that erupts gets muffled by layers of down.

Sherlock stares down at the murky depths of his coffee. It had gotten cold, he had been staring at it for too long. He feels like he is staring at the dark end of an abyss. He has not been near this abyss for a long time. This space in his mind palace belongs to things he hates addressing—like feelings. And emotions. And other, illogical, nonsensical thoughts. Like love.  
He shakes his head. He stands up from his seat at the counter. He pours the cold liquid down the drain. He clunks the mug down and the sound it makes him wonder if he broke it, but he does not stick to see if he did break it. He stomps into his living room and picks up the violin. He decides to work on his piece.  
Hermione goes up the steps. The sound of violin floats down from the top. She frowns. Somehow, his playing sounds, angry. She stops at the first landing. Should she even venture in there? But then concern gnaws at her. Has he eaten, or more importantly, slept? She should definitely go check on him. Confused feelings aside, she still cares about him. She marches upstairs instead.  
He hears her footsteps. He does not stop playing though. He hears the door open. He turns around. She looked tired in her faded t-shirt and quilted robe. He frowns as he quietly deduces her. He still does not speak.  
She takes a look around. The room's a mess. But that is given. She asks, "Have you eaten?" When he does not answer, she goes into the kitchen anyway and starts preparing a breakfast.  
He sits down on his chair and looks on as she ties her hair into a messy bun and gets to work. She puts the bread into a toaster. When she discovers eggs in his fridge, she shows her surprise, "What? You have actual food here?" Must be Mrs Hudson's doing. She then decides to scramble them.  
She hands him a plate of food. He takes it, and even eats it, much to her surprise.  
He, then, decides to make his deductions aloud, "Draco Malfoy spent the night at your place. But you didn't have sex with him, judging by the way you look today. No flush, no post-coital glow. Instead you look tired."  
She was about to take a sip of the tea she had prepared for herself when he speaks. Her eyes go wide. Great, just what she feared.


	6. Chapter 6

Should she be annoyed or start explaining herself? Hermione wonders. But then, the Gryffindor pride in her tells her not to explain. She does not need to. So she gets annoyed instead. She places the tea cup on the floor and frowns, "What I do—," her great speech is interrupted when his phone starts ringing.  
He narrows his eyes at her, capturing her like a specimen under his microscope. She is, however, unmoving. He breaks eye contact to pick up his phone, "Hello?"  
"Oh hi, Sherlock, Harry here. Is Hermione there? I keep calling her but, uh, she is not picking up."  
"She is here." He gives the phone to her. She grabs it, her blood pressure increasing by every Arctic gaze thrown her direction.  
"Hello?" she says.  
"Hey, Harry here, look I need a favour," Harry says.  
"What?"  
"Can you come over by the Ministry? Something happened…it is sort of, well, weird. I can't figure it out."  
"Okay. I will be there in fifteen minutes, or so."  
"Okay. God, you are the best. You can bring Sherlock if you'd like. This is sort of mysterious."  
She gnashes her teeth, and nearly hisses out, but making sure he hears her loud and clear, "No. He is not going anywhere. Also, don't you think bringing him along would be like, a more serious breach of the Statute of Secrecy? We have exposed us enough already. Is our lives really worth it? Plus, he is so busy poking his nose where it doesn't belong, I don't think he can make it." She disconnects the phone, not waiting for Harry to reply.  
If indeed real life was like a cartoon show, there would be smoke curling out of Sherlock's ears. He says nothing as she hands him back the phone, gets up and leaves. He keeps on chewing on the same piece of bread for a while till it becomes a tasteless mush in his mouth. He gulps it down anyway with the now cold tea. He hears the door to her apartment bang shut. He gets up with mug in hand. He spots her leaving, dressed in a blood red jacket, her hair flowing free in the light wind. Adding to insult, she looks up, knowing very well that he would be there. A few heartbeats pass as she looks at him, through narrowed eyes and narrowed lips. Then he sees her mouth "Fuck off" at him.  
His breath hitches, his knuckles tighten around the mug and the next thing he knows is the mug flying through the air, and crash-landing at the wall near the spray-painted smiley, the remaining tea running down, adding a new look to the wall.

Sitting at Harry's office, waiting for Levin, Hermione goes over her incredibly juvenile reaction. She knew his eyes were boring into her, she could feel it on her back. So okay, it pissed her off and she turned around and mouthed "Fuck off." She does not resort to expletives, but he manages to bring out the worst in her at times. It was stupid. She would need to apologise when she goes back. That is not how she usually behaves. But damn it, Sherlock manages to crawl deep under skin and throw her off her balance. She rubs her head, hoping for some caffeine fix.  
As if on cue, she smells the heavenly scent of coffee wafting. She turns her head sideways to see Ron holding two cups of coffee. He smiles, "This is not exactly an exotic blend, but you looked like you needed it."  
She takes it, wrapping her fingers around it, grateful for the warmth. She smiles, "What gave me away, my pale skin and baggy eyes?"  
He sits down opposite her and blows steam off of the rim. He smiles, "Mostly that. I was only married to you for ten years."  
"Three months short of a whole decade." They laugh and drink their coffees.  
He asks, "Is everything okay between you and Sherlock?"  
The coffee nearly goes down the wrong pipe, as she chokes a little. She wipes her mouth and mumbles, "No, I mean, nothing really. He is just being a dick. As usual. Haha."  
He sees right through her. He raises an eyebrow and is saved from commenting further when Harry enters, Levin in tow.  
Harry sighs, "Okay, we are ready to go. Levin?"  
"Yes," Levin speaks, in his usual clipped tone, "My contact at York has said that the floo networks will be connected soon and we can go investigate from his place. He has graciously offered us his car."  
"Thank you Levin." Levin nods and goes to his desk, shuffling papers and stuffing some into his bag.  
Ron whispers to Hermione, "Does Levin ever make you wonder that maybe, just, maybe he is not exactly human?"  
Hermione stifles a giggle. Then she starts giggling anyway when Levin clears his throat, indicating that he had heard Ron very loud and clear. Ron coughs, and sips his drink.  
"What is this address?" Hermione asks.  
"All I know it is in York from the postal code. See?" he hands her the note, "YO31."  
She rubs the paper between her fingers, her eyebrows crinkling. "Okay."  
The flames in the office fireplace come to life with all its emerald glory. The wizards turn their attention to it. Hermione gulps her remaining coffee.  
A middle-aged wizard with a genial face steps out of the flames. He is dressed in burgundy robes, which matches well with his salt and pepper hair. He smiles at them, and spotting Levin, says in a loud but not unpleasant voice, "Levin, my boy!" he outstretches his hands as he nears Levin, who shrinks a little, "Come on give your uncle a welcome!"  
The older wizard manages to ensnare his nephew, who simply pats his back and mumbles, "Hello uncle Ivan." His face portrays his discomfort.  
The rest of them watch this scene with quiet amusement. None of them have ever seen Levin Dobrev this perturbed, and lost, and greatly uncomfortable.  
The man releases Levin, and smiles at them. He shakes hands with Harry, then Hermione and Ron. He beams at them all, "Golly, it is so nice to see you in flesh! The Golden Trio! I am Ivan Dobrev, Levin's youngest uncle. Now if you would please follow me, I connected this fireplace with the one in my residence," he walks into the flame.  
Ron says, "Your contact is your uncle. Why would you hide that?"  
"I did not hide it. I simply didn't deem it important enough to mention," Levin replies, his passivity back in place.  
"It is an odd thing to do Levin," Harry remarks.  
Levin steps into the hearth, one foot still on the outside, "You will see why." And he disappears into the inferno.  
The trio exchange looks and one by one step into the fireplace.

Sherlock was sitting there, again, in his sofa again, weighing every possibility so he can eliminate the one least probable when his phone rings. He looks at it. It is John.  
He picks it up, feeling a little bad for not checking up on his friend. Damn Hermione Granger. He receives it, "John."  
"Sherlock…" John mumbles.  
Sherlock jumps out of his chair, imagining all possible situations at the tone of John's voice, when John speaks again, "I am at the hospital. It is Mary."

Ron, Harry and Hermione are staggered by the Dobrev residence. Surely Levin is adopted, because Ivan Dobrev and family is everything Levin is not. The room they floo into is huge, airy and painted a cheery yellow. There are harlequin upholstery and expertly placed flowerpots everywhere. Magic is sustaining the seasonal quality of all the flora in the room. There is a certain essence of life and happiness just lingering in the atmosphere. . Their eyes fall on the couple who receive Levin. They have already met Ivan, and there is other woman, tall and elegant, maybe his wife, pinching Levin's cheeks who protests, "Aunty I am not ten anymore!"  
The scene makes all three of them direly want to start laughing but they squash it down. The woman notices them and strolls up to them, smilingly says, "Wow! I never thought I would celebrities over at my home! Oh, by the way, I am Marija Dobrev, Levin's aunt and Ivan's wife. Welcome, would you like some tea or something?"  
Levin interrupts, "No aunty, we need to go. We are here on work."  
Marija's face falls. She looks at her husband who smiles and nods his head. He clasps his hands and says, "Oh Marija! Our Levin is now an officer, he can't stay and linger! C'mon let's get to work then?"  
"Ivan? Levin?" Marija says, her voice heavy with emotion.  
The trio feel mighty awkward to be standing there. Hermione says, "Mrs Dobrev, it was lovely to meet you. Maybe after we are done, Levin can come over and spend time with you. I am sure his boss won't mind." She stares at Harry until he nods his head. That seems to cheer up Marija.  
Ivan then bustles them out of the room, down a staircase, through a foyer and towards a driveway. He excuses himself to fetch his car from the garage. As soon as he leaves, Harry says, "Levin! Can I know why you ignore your family members when they seem like nice people?"  
Levin, for once, drops his mask and sad, broken, haunted look swirls in his eyes. He sighs, "Ivan and Marija had a daughter, Elena. She was a Squib. My brother, also dead, killed her after he sided with Voldemort in 1995. I was twelve when it happened. It was sheer blood prejudice. He despised her for being Muggle-like in a family of Purebloods. There is a reason why I can no longer be okay around them, even though uncle and aunty are the nicest, most forgiving people on Earth..."  
"You will forever feel guilty for your brother's actions," Hermione concludes softly.  
Levin nods. Harry places a hand on his assistant's shoulder. Ron says, "Sorry for, that, what I said…"  
"It is okay, Mr Weasley," Levin smiles weakly, "I am what I am."  
A car honks behind them. Levin groans, "I can't believe he still has that car."

Driving in a remodelled canary yellow Vauxhall Astra on rain slicked paved roads is quite an experience. Especially when that car smells like cats, cologne and Kavarma (as Ron said). Ivan explained, "We have three cats and Marija co-owns a little Bulgarian eatery in town."  
"Where is this address uncle?" Levin asks.  
"That is the strange part, it is an abandoned chocolate factory that is under redevelopment."  
They all share a look of complete confusion.  
It takes them some twenty minutes or more to reach the factory. They all get down from the car and look in awe at the late 1930s Art Deco building. Hermione says, "Wow."  
"And huge," Ron grumbles.  
"We will split up, anything you find mysterious, report ASAP!" Harry orders. The group scatters.

"Holy…it is too early. It was supposed to be in mid-February. Not late January. Shit shit shit," John says as he paces back and forth.  
Sherlock follows his movement, wondering the right response to what he said. So far, he is clueless.

They had been going over the derelict structure for close to an hour when Hermione finds something. The closest person to her, then, is Levin who she calls down.  
She points at the corpse of a fox lying on the dusty, bare wooden floor. The unusual thing is the half-eaten piece of apple lying beside it. She asks, "What do you think?"  
"This is not local fauna," Levin remarks after a few seconds he spends inspecting the fox with soft red fur. Suddenly they hear a shout. They race off to find the source of the voice.  
They run up some stairs to see Ron and Ivan clutching a bucket between them. Their faces were flushed. Hermione ask, "What? Where is Harry?"  
As if on cue, Harry apparates into the room. But he comes not alone.

**A/N. Because I love Levin, I gave him a little backstory. Sorry for the mini, unnecessary sub-sub-plot. :)**


	7. Chapter 7

It took a while determining if the siblings were Muggle or wizards. When they understood that they were Muggles, they were sent to a government hospital. And as expected Mycroft came to visit. It is like the man has a built-in radar. And he wanted to know everything.  
Levin took over, "An alarm was raised when someone intruded Mr Percy Weasley's office. He or she did not take anything but left a note in Mr Weasley's locker. On the note was this address," he passes the note to Mycroft, "Then we went to the abandoned factory. Ms Granger and I found a corpse of an animal that was not local fauna. The corpse is at the Department of Magical Creatures. However, Mr Potter, Mr Weasley and my uncle, Ivan Dobrev, found a portkey. My uncle found it first. But it was not activated until Mr Potter touched it," he also shows the small broken bucket, "Mr Potter went along to a small house in a nondescript field where he found these children—the brother and the sister."  
"They don't remember anything," Harry continued, "Well, at least the brother doesn't remember anything. I found them both unconscious at the house. Only the brother, Daniel, has regained consciousness. His sister, Katie, has not. Her vitals are okay, but no one knows why she is not waking up."  
"Hmm," Mycroft says, rubbing his lips.  
"Umm?" Hermione ventures, "You don't think it is his doing, do you?" And by "his" everybody knew she is talking about London's biggest psychopath.  
"We can't be sure now can we? But Ms Granger what are you doing here?"  
"Excuse me?"  
"John just became a father. No one told you?"  
"No." Hermione frowns. Of course "no one" told her. She can also tell by Mycroft's face that he is wondering why as well. "Do you know where they are? I'd like to congratulate the new parents."  
"I can do one better. Why don't you take my car?"  
"Thank you."

Okay, novelty cupcakes and flowers, check. Hermione hauls her gifts up along the foyer of the hospital and up the elevator. She finds the room and gets surprised. Also her heart melts a little.  
Sherlock has a little pink bundle in his arms and he is looking at the baby in his arms with the most tender expression on his face. She is, oddly, transfixed. And an image of little curly haired brunette babies flashes in her brain.  
Before she can freak out over the way her brain is working right now, John notices her presence and smiles, "Hermione! I did tell Sherlock to call you!"  
"Yeah. Congratulations!" she gives her gifts to John. She goes over by Mary's side and says, "Mary? I am Hermione. I live at 221C?"  
"Yes," Mary grabs her hand, "John told me about you. It is so nice too finally meet you."  
"I am very pleased to meet you as well. And congratulations! What is she named?"  
"Simone Elizabeth Watson."  
"Nice." She walks across to Sherlock, who still has Simone in his arms, she says, "I am guessing Sherlock is the godfather?"  
"Obviously!" Mary laughs, "I heard you have two kids?"  
"Yes," Hermione looks down at the little human being with a puffy pink face. She touches one tiny fist and she flashbacks to the time when she gave birth. Her children were this tiny too. Time flies.  
"So you had to do this twice?"  
"Yes," she laughs and Mary joins in.  
"More importantly the husband had to do this twice!" John interjects, "You nearly broke my fingers and blew out my eardrums!"  
They all start laughing, even Sherlock who was concentrating real hard on carrying a child in his hand. He passes her on to John, who sits down beside Mary and they both coo at their new family member. Hermione and Sherlock smile at them.  
Sherlock whispers, "I did not call you."  
Hermione whispers back, "Outside now." She turns around and walks out of the room. Sherlock follows.  
When they leave the room, Mary says, "Did you see how Sherlock was looking at Hermione when she was standing beside him?"  
"Of course I did," John says, with a smirk.  
"Does he, like, you know, like her? But that would be sort of impossible. She is really beautiful."  
"Hmm. I wouldn't know."  
Mary looks at her husband and wonders about the odd look on his face.  
When outside, Hermione angrily says, "Really nice of you, not to call me."  
"I forgot," Sherlock says, not looking at her and with his hands crossed behind his back.  
"Mycroft told me."  
He looks at her now, "Mycroft?"  
"Yes," she crosses her arms across her chest, "Ministry business. Are you ready to be civil again?"  
When he takes too long to answer her, she huffs and leaves. He can be so annoying at times.  
He looks at her, speeding out, her hair flying. She turns around a corner and disappears from his view. He simultaneously feels angry, worried and frustrated. Oh okay, he had enough. He decides to follow her, not forgetting to leave a message for John.  
He turns the corner, which is empty. She apparated. Great. He needed to say some things and he will tell them to her. Just then his phone rings. He groans at the caller id. He picks it up anyway, "What?"  
Mycroft's smooth, bureaucratic voice answers, "I send Ms Granger over at the hospital. It was odd that you didn't tell her. I thought you were close?"  
Sherlock gnashes his teeth, trying to control his rage, "None of your business." He disconnects, hoping he could break his phone on his older brother's head instead.  
He jams his hands in his pocket and walks out of the hospital. He hails down a taxi next.

Hermione feels mad, sad and lost. Why did Sherlock make her feel like this? She wants to vent. She kicks at her coffee table and then winces from pain. Okay, that was a bad idea. And this jeans are too tight. Why did she put them on? She throws her jacket on the sofa and wrenches out the jeans, cursing at the wind and Ginny Potter, she made her buy these anyway. She hates it. She throws it on the sofa as well. Then in her top and underwear, stalks to her bedroom and flops down on her bed, spread-eagled.  
She is so tired of everything. This new mystery, Jim Moriarty, Draco Malfoy and most importantly, Sherlock bloody Holmes. And here she thought her life was back to normal, with kids, a job and an ex-husband. But then again, no, Hermione Granger cannot catch a break. No matter how hard she tries. She is thirty five for heaven's sake!  
She sighs. Sherlock isn't despicable all the time. She sits up and walks over to her dresser. His gift is in her jewellery box, wrapped in cloth. She unwraps the barrette and trails her fingers over the carvings. It is so beautiful. A smile breaks out anyway and she whispers, "I don't hate you at all, do I?"  
And why would she hate him? She had never met anyone like him ever in her life. People would tell her that she was "practically" a genius, never one. But he was. Still, he was someone she could interact with without her ego coming in between, wherein she had to prove she was better than them. He was already better than her, and his egomaniac ways would sometimes float to the surface but he still treated her on his level. And it felt nice whenever he said nice things to her.  
Then again, she wasn't seeking approval from him. He just fascinated her so much. He was more than a genius. She saw that, experienced it first-hand. And that made her fall too deep. There was something awesome about being liked (or tolerated) by someone who hates everybody.  
She shakes her head, the barrette clutched in her grip. She tries not to, but an uneasy fear creeps in anyway. What if, he never really lets her in? Can she live with that? No one ever had made her feel this way—exhilarated and annoyed, angry and worried, liking and despising in the same breath.  
Then all the little things that happened between them reminds her that if she has learnt anything in the last few months, is this, Sherlock Holmes is unpredictable, so very unpredictable. Another sigh escapes her lips.  
Then her doorbell rings. Her heart skips a beat. No way.  
She opens the door, her hand shaking on the bolt. Apparently she was right. It is Sherlock. Good thing she didn't forget to drape her dress robe on.  
Sherlock walks in. He spots the discarded items of clothing on the sofa. He turns around to face her. He gulps. Here goes then, he says, "I am sorry. For not calling you and for what I did this morning. I should not have said all that. It is your life."  
She nods her head. She crosses her arms, the barrette still in her hand. She says, "It is okay. I am sorry for getting angry. For the record, I don't really mean that."  
"I know." That makes her blush a little. "I just got jealous, you could say."  
"I know that," she drops her head, "Why though, can I ask?"  
Oh no. He gulps again. She bites her lips. He is really not going to answer now, is he? And what kind of redundant question was that? Her eyes dart all around the room for a plausible distraction, when she gets an idea. "Sherlock? Never mind. I got another question though. Maybe you can answer that."  
She sees him getting relaxed again. The deer-in-headlights expression wiped from his face. He nods at her to continue. She uncrosses her arms and shows him the barrette. She asks, "What are these flowers? I couldn't make it out."  
The colour rises from his neck up. He says, "It is a strawberry flower."  
"Oh?"  
Then before he can reign in his tongue, it slips, "Your hair smells like strawberries."  
An impromptu grin breaks on her face. He does like her. From the look on his face, she can tell he was looking to never divulge that information. She has never seen him blush. Fascinating.  
And he can tell by the grin and twinkle in her brown eyes that she had figured out his intentions. So he does the smartest thing. He escapes.  
She is still grinning when he hastily retreats, blushing and mumbling. She decides to follow him. No way is he going to leave like that.  
He races up the stairs and into his bedroom. He knows she would follow him, inevitably. So he sits down  
She walks into 221B and isn't surprised to see an empty living room. Bedroom then. She finds him sitting on his bed, his gaze unfocused. Her footsteps break his reverie and he looks up at her. She walks over and sits down on the bed, facing him. She softly asks, "So, Sherlock Holmes, are you saying you find me interesting?" He nods.  
"And you do, in fact, like me?"

**A/N. There is smut next chapter. Ehehehe... :3 Fair warning because I am not great at writing 'it'. LOL.**


	8. Chapter 8

First Sherlock rolls his eyes, then he sighs. Finally, he says, "Yes. I have told myself since forever that I don't need this, and all romantic entanglements are detrimental. But I had never met you." He shifts his gaze down, suddenly embarrassed.  
Hermione laughs. She grabs both of his hands and cradles them in her lap. He looks back at her with a subtle shyness that she immediately finds immensely endearing. She gives him a lopsided smile. She leans forwards and kisses him. Hesitantly at first, but then he responds. He wrenches his hands out from her grasp and grabs her waist. He pulls her to him. She nips on his full lower lip as she strokes the curls at the nape of his neck. She smiles when she feels him shiver a little. He runs his tongue along her lower lip and it is her turn to shiver slightly. He has never done this before, this taking control thing. She gives in gladly. She opens her mouth further and he slips in.  
He kisses her like a man dying of thirst would drink. He missed her and this. His body is on auto-pilot and his mind is wonderfully blank. He tastes her deeply and she is heavenly. He winds his one hand in her wild brown curls and with the other drags her robe down her back. He pulls her head back as he turns his attention to her neck. He kisses her jaw and then moves down her neck, leaving her in a quivering mess. She moans out loud when he finds her pulse and gently sucks on it. He softly grazes his teeth over there. The sensation drives her heart to a mad frenzy and sends desire pooling at her core. She whispers, "Oh Sherlock."  
He stops his ministrations at her neck when she whispers out his name like that and looks at her. Pupils dilated, chest heaving and heavy breathing clearly marks her arousal. He is certain he mirrors her expressions and feelings as well.  
She places both hands on his smooth alabaster neck. She feels him quiver under her tentative touch. She moves her hands further down. She rests them on his chest; she could feel his heart beating from under the thin material of his shirt. She opens the buttons on his shirt in a steady pace. When she is at the last button, Sherlock covers her hands with his. She looks into his beautiful blue-green eyes and sees hesitation and trepidation. He whispers, "Hermione, are you sure? I have never—"  
She leans forwards and kisses him softly on his lips. She murmurs against his lips, "I know. And yes."  
She finishes unbuttoning him and slides the shirt off his shoulders. It falls to a crumpled heap on the floor. She shifts so now she is straddling him. She touches the place over his heart. He looks at her, pupils so dilated; the blue-green is hardly seen. She smiles at her little triumph. She puts her head in the crook of his neck and breathes his scent. It almost makes her mouth water. She places her lips on his exposed neck. She mimics his actions. He grabs her even more tightly. She can hear his erratic breathing. She can feel his chest rising and falling. And best of all, she can feel his erection pressing on her abdomen.  
She pulls back and tugs off her t-shirt, exposing her shell pink bra underneath. She sees his Adam's apple moving as his eyes wander over her barely covered chest. He raises a finger and traces the lace trimmings on the top of her breasts. Her nipples respond in kind to his touch. She grabs his hands and directs it to her back. He understands her silent request and tries unclasping the bra. He frowns as he fails to do so. She laughs, "Why are men such idiots when it comes to bras? It is not rocket science or potion making!"  
"Well, then don't wear them. Makes everything easier-"  
She does not let him finish the sentence. She covers his mouth with her own. He finally manages to unclasp her bra. She stops kissing him and an abrupt giggle escapes from her lips. He looks at her amused. He asks, "What?"  
"Well it didn't take you long to do that!"  
He grins, "Well I am very clever."  
"Oh yes you are," her voice drops to a husky whisper. She runs her fingers through his dark curls. He closes his eyes and relishes the feeling of her fingernails gently scraping his scalp. He makes a pleased, purring sound. She giggles again. He opens his eyes and crooks an eyebrow. She smiles, "Just like a cat."  
He smiles and leans forward, placing a kiss on her smooth shoulder. He tugs at the straps and pulls it down, slowly down her arm, never breaking eye contact with her. She feels slightly breathless and prays to Merlin she does not faint now from the sheer intensity of his gaze. He releases her breasts by one final tug which sends the brassiere landing somewhere in the room. She can care about that later.  
He takes his finger and traces a path from the base of her neck to her cleavage. Goosebumps erupt on her skin in his wake. He turns his attention to her nipples now. He watches the rise and fall of her chest with some amusement. He cups one breast and rubs his thumbs over her nipple. She notes the looks on his face. She asks slightly breathless (she is shocked that her brain is still functioning while her body has given up), "What?"  
"Nipples get hardened during arousal and-"  
"You are incorrigible." She shakes her head. She is not annoyed, just anticipatory. She knows he is going somewhere with his sudden observation.  
"So if I do this," he rubs his thumbs over the sensitive skin again and gently pinches it, "Would you like it?"  
She forgets how to speak and answers him with a moan. He smiles triumphantly. He then decides to replace his fingers with his mouth. He flicks his tongue over her skin and grazes it with his teeth, sucking it. He then gives her other breast the same treatment. She closes her eyes, arches her back and moans again in response. He leans back and looks at her. He whispers, "I take it that I was right."  
She opens her eyes and nods, "Oh yes."  
She roughly kisses him and shifts a bit, so now her sex is covering his erect cock straining the fabric of his trousers. She starts grinding at a steady pace and is rewarded by a guttural moan from him. She decides that they are wearing too many clothes. Her hands impatiently seek out the zip. She finds it and unzips him. He rises on his knees, pulling her with him, never breaking their kiss. He helps her pull his trousers and underwear down his legs. He kicks his legs a bit and off goes flying his garments as well.  
He presses her close to his chest and pulls back for air. He says breathlessly, "Your turn." He traces a finger over the front of her knickers. He finds her wet and ready. She quivers and gasps as he rubs against her clit. He then runs his fingers over the curve on her buttocks. He slips in a hand and pushes the garment down her posterior. She helps him and tugs it off her.  
They stop what they are doing with their hands and look at each other—naked for the first time. She glances over his face with all its beautiful sharpness. His eyes take her breath away. They are soft and she cannot figure out what colour even are they now. His pale, alabaster chest sprinkled with light hair. She feels a little smug at she looks at his obvious arousal. The fact that she is kind of responsible for that makes her blush.  
He notes the blush rising from her chest to her face. He sees her breasts becoming a delicate pink as the blood travels to her head. She averts her eyes and looks down. He smiles, fairly deducing that he is the reason for that beautiful pinkish glow on her face again.  
He wraps his hands around her, drawing her closer still. He pushes a strand of curl off her shoulder and kisses her under her ears. He whispers, "You are beautiful." He feels her shiver against his bare chest.  
She wraps her fingers around his neck and says, "You are not too awful yourself Mr. Holmes."  
He smiles as he leans down to kiss her. Taking full advantage of their height difference, he tugs at her hair. Her head falls backward and he deepens his kiss. He feels so many things right now as he kisses her fervently and passionately; he cannot even begin to label them.  
She reaches down and grabs his cock in her hands. She starts stroking it. He stops kissing her and moans, "Hermione." The sound of her name on his lips spurs her. She runs her hand up and down his impressible shaft. She positions his cock against her clit and starts slowly grinding again.  
He groans as the double assault on his cock by her hand and wet slit renders him weak in his knees. In a swift and sudden move, he turns and now she is pressed on the mattress while he looms over her, trying to clear his head.  
She squeals at the sudden change. He takes a breather and looks at her. She can see the uncertainty in his eyes. She puts a hand on his cheek and says, "Yes. I want you Sherlock. I want this. I want you so much right now that if you don't start right now, I will curse you from here to Mongolia."  
A deep chuckle rumbles from his chest and he kisses her deeply, relaying his intentions. He breaks away and makes eye contact with her. She nods once and that is all the encouragement he needs. She spreads her legs apart. He positions himself at her slick entrance. He pushes in slowly. He feels her muscles clenching around his cock. But he is not deep enough. She scowls, "Sherlock Holmes. Stop teasing or else-"  
"Or else what?" he smirks. He never lets her finish her sentence as he thrusts in completely taking her by shock. Her eyes widen due to the sudden movement and her mouth forms a 'O'. He pulls back and drives back into her. She arches off the bed and grabs onto his shoulders for dear support. He picks up a rhythm of his own, driving her mad. She wraps her legs around his waist and groans softly.  
He thrusts in and out, surprising himself. He never gave sex a second thought, but now he changes his mind. He feels her muscles clenching and unclenching. His cock is soon covered by her wetness. He feels a strain forming in his groin, asking for release. He looks down at her. She gulps as she understands his silent plea for direction. She is close to her undoing but it needs another push. She moans, "Harder Sherlock, faster too." He nods as he picks up his pace. He places his hands, palm down beside her. She grabs one of his hands and directs it down her clit. She nods as she takes two of his fingers and shows him what to do. He gulps and nods as he takes her instructions. He rubs down on the bundle of nerves. He keeps up the pace and strokes her where she wants to.  
She digs her nails on his shoulder as she feels her orgasm coming unto her. She moans out and closes her eyes as the knot inside her opens, rushes through her system burning her blood. Her skin breaks out in goosebumps. She opens her eyes and she whispers, "Oh Merlin yes! Oh Sherlock!" She looks up at him. The sound of his name on his lips and increased pressure on his cock screams for the strain to ease down. He gulps as he feels his release coming closer and says, "Hermione, I-"  
"It is okay Sherlock."  
He lets go at her words. She feels his cock hardening further and the increased pressure inside of her makes her to shake fervently. She feels another orgasm incoming as he closes his eyes and releases his seed into her. He slams into her deeper, their skin so close that neither could for the moment figure out where the other began and ended. She digs her nails deeper as she arches off the bed for the second time. He nestles his head in the crook of her neck. He murmurs against her neck, "Oh Hermione."  
She strokes his hair as they both come down from the high. He moves out from her and puts his weight on his elbows. He looks down at her. He removes a curl off her eyes. She smiles as she shifts and pushes him down on the mattress. He lies down on his back. She curls up against him placing her head over his heart.  
He strokes her bare back and says, "Is this post-coital cuddling?"  
"Yes. Us women kind of like this. So don't complain," she smiles.  
"I am not complaining. It is alright. I don't mind."  
"Good. But if you did I would have hexed you."  
"I wasn't planning on leaving you after, anyway."  
She chuckles, "About that," she raises herself up and supports herself on her elbow and looks down at him, mirth shining in her eyes, "That was very good for a newbie. I would give you a B plus."  
"Just a B plus?"  
"Well sir, you need to learn more."  
"Why don't you teach me?" He raises himself up as well and supporting himself on an elbow, crooks an eyebrow with a devious grin on his face.  
"I would love to teach," she reaches out and strokes his neck, "Such a clever student." She finishes the sentence in a seductive whisper.  
"When do we start the classes then?" she shivers slightly as she sees his eyes darkening. She feels excitement rushing through her veins. But her brain had other plans as she yawns.  
He smiles as he grabs the blankets and covers them. He lies down on his back again. He grabs her and gently pulls her towards him. She relents and throwing her arms around him, nestles into his chest. She yawns again and says, "Why am I so sleepy?"  
He says, "Well there are various reasons as to why people feel tired after sex. First of-"  
She puts her hand over his mouth and mumbles sleepily, "Rhetoric. I really don't need a post-coital lecture now."  
He makes a humming sound as he feels fatigue descending upon him as well. He smiles and closes his eyes. He is looking forward to their "classes" eagerly already.

**A/N. So? If you are cringing, so sorry. :3  
****And omg, I just need to go TMI here, but damn Black Butler! Anyone else obsessed with this anime?**


	9. Chapter 9

Hermione feels oddly happy. Like everything is okay and she is great, and no psychopaths are running free in London. She is awake, but does not open her eyes. She can feel—the soft cotton sheets rubbing against her skin, the warm, slightly muscular arm around her waist, the whisper of breath gently tickling her neck and the rise and fall of a chest. His chest. She opens her eyes now, grinning and biting her lips.  
She turns around as carefully as possible, not wanting to disturb the man sleeping beside her. She quietly observes him. He gets to observe her plenty, it is her turn now. Of all the men she has dated, no one quite made her feel like he did. The exhilaration and the exasperation coupled with all the times he managed to sweep her off her feet without him, or her, knowing. The myriad ways he would anger her, or the little things he would do for her which would melt her heart. He is something else entirely. She raises herself on her elbow and plants a feather-soft kiss on his cheek.  
She dons her robe and cringes as her stomach grumbles out loud. Right, she forgot dinner entirely. It was close to nine. She can order pizza.  
She walks into the kitchen for water when a crazy thought finds place in her head. What next? All the sunshine-butterfly-happiness feelings suddenly cower under the dark clouds of said thought. He was like no other man, right? Then chances are he will not process the situation like anyone else either. She stares down at her glass, as if the colourless liquid just might divinely help her. She raises her head up, optimism creeping in. Maybe, just maybe, he will not do what she expects of him. After all, he is unpredictable.  
She jams her hand in the left pocket of her robe. Her fingers brush against something metal. She brings out the item in question, and grins. The barrette. She might have put it in her pocket when she was walking upstairs. She scoops up a bit of her hair and pins it in place. She walks into the bathroom and looks at her reflection. Next she has to put a hand over her mouth otherwise the hysterical laughter threatening to escape would have alerted even Mrs Hudson downstairs. She looks exactly like what Sherlock was trying to look for that morning when she came upstairs after Draco left. All "flush" and "post-coital glow".  
She removes her hand. She looks at herself for a few seconds. Her brown eyes are shiny, her hair has taken a life of its own (she dreads detangling them already) and her face is flushed. She is very happy. Really, even when she knows what she is getting into. It surprises her a little.

Sherlock wakes up to an empty bed. He sits up straight and touches the empty space beside him. It is losing its warmth. She must have woken up a few minutes before then. Did she leave? He looks around his room for clues. No she has not. Her bra was still crumpled on the floor, so was the rest of her attire. That means she is still in his apartment.  
And it scares him and fills him with an ebullient apprehension. He frowns. That is indeed an odd mix of emotions. Unlike anything else before.  
He softly chuckles to himself. What will Mycroft or John say when they learn that he is The Virgin no more? That thought alone amuses him to no extent. Maybe he can manipulate Hermione to kiss him by the window, then Mycroft's spies will report that salacious piece of information to him. He would pay to see his older brother reacting to that. Probably be all smug because he did see it coming.  
He shakes his head. What is he thinking about? Hermione, think about her. He places his feet flat on the floor and takes a deep breath. He asks himself where he wants to go from here. Does he want to wave this entire incident off and pretend like nothing happened? But that would break her heart and he doesn't want that. Also, he really does not like the notion of it. He likes her best when she is happy and amusing herself at his expense, like the harmless jabs and the way she cares about him, especially even when she is angry at him.  
He stands up and grabs his house robe. As he ties it around his waist, he ponders over what makes her so different that it made him stand up and notice, completely devoid himself of his oath. She is smart, and he can say that because he hardly ever finds anyone smart enough. She is strong, independent and powerful. Yet, she is also humble and nice. Sure she has an ego like everyone else, but he does not mind. He likes her just the way she is.  
He walks out of his room. He sees the bathroom door open and peeks inside. He sees her smiling at her own reflection, lost in thought. He sees the glow on her face. Her mess of a hair messier still, his gift shining under the tube-light. His heart skips a beat. And he realises with great surprise that he really never wants to hurt her so that she never smiles like that again.

Sherlock walks into the bathroom, shocking Hermione a little. She gasps, "Oh, you are awake! I was sort of hungry, so I, uh, ordered pizza." Her eyes are wide in anticipation. She has no clue what he is thinking with that weird look on his face.  
He closes the distance between them, his chest to her back. She can feel the heat emanating, and resists the urge to fall back on him. Their gazes lock on the mirror. He just looks so…intensely at her. She opens her mouth, to say something, anything, when he beats her to it. He touches the barrette on her head and says, "I am, uh, I am not planning to be pretentious like always."  
She sighs. Of all the things he could have said, this was not expected. He grabs her shoulders, and she finally rests against his chest, smiling. He kisses behind her ear and says, "What kind of pizza?"

Mrs Hudson was just about to call it a night when her phone rings. It is John. She picks it up, "Oh hello dear! Is everything okay? Is Mary and the baby okay?"  
John chuckles, "No, no we are all okay. It is just, I had a favour to ask of you. Sherlock left quite suddenly. Could you go and check on him? Please?"  
"Oh no problem dear, hold on." She walks up the stairs, clutching the phone in her hand. The side door is open, and she is about to knock when she hears voices. She frowns, it is Hermione's voice and Sherlock's. She peeks in to see an empty kitchen. She ventures further and stops short of the partition between the kitchen and the living room. What she sees surprises her and then again, does not really surprise her.  
Sherlock is sitting on his chair with Hermione draped over his lap. They are dressed in robes and are laughing and talking. His hands are on her hips while she runs her fingers through his hair. Mrs Hudson backs away slowly, she is no voyeur and she no longer will violate their privacy. But is she glad for them! She tiptoes downstairs.  
John asks as soon as Mrs Hudson puts the phone back on her ears, "Mrs Hudson? Everything okay?"  
"Oh dear, you won't believe me."

When John hears what Mrs Hudson saw, he was chuckling by the time he disconnected. Well, finally the git owned up to his feelings. He is going to call his friend tomorrow and tease him about it, because that is what best friends are for. Also he would pay to see Mycroft's reaction to this new development. This is quite a nice surprise.

A subordinate rushed along to find Levin Dobrev because word was on the floor that he still has not gone home. He was glad to find him, outside the Head Auror's office.  
Levin heard footsteps as he was locking the door to the office. He looks up to find a man running up to him. He frowns, direly wishing it was not anything important because it is late, has been a long day and he really wants to sleep. The man stops and catches his breath as Levin crosses his arms, and waits. He says, "Yes? How may I help you?"  
The man answers, "Sir, I am from the Department of Magical Creatures. The fox you bought in was send to an animal hospital in Muggle London, who found that indeed you were right, the fox is not from around here. And it was killed by poison."  
Levin rubs his lower lip in consternation. Why would anyone poison a fox? He does not express his surprise at this new information.

**A/N. So very sorry for the long wait. Also to those following this fic, I have an, err, announcement. Okay, my university exams are going to happen in a month, and I will not be able to write much. I will be forever be grateful if you all can be a wee patient with me. Please. :3**


	10. Chapter 10

The sun rays break through the curtains and falls on Sherlock's face. He blinks and yawns. He turns his head and smiles. Hermione is asleep beside her. Her brown curls sprawled across his chest. Suddenly he stops smiling at the reason behind his early morning glee. Sherlock of old would not be smiling at the idea of getting involved with a woman, and now he is actually glad. What?  
He slowly shifts as to not wake her up. He sits up and wonders. Last night after they had eaten and washed up, she had given him some more "classes". And he had immensely enjoyed them. He grins. He thinks he likes sex. And he also likes her.  
He looks down at her and admires the way the sheet covers her undulating curves. The way it moulded her curves and dipped and rose as she inhaled and exhaled. He dips his head and kisses her shoulder. She moves a bit, and opens her eyes. She smiles at him and mumbles, "Hey."  
"Morning," he says.  
"Can you do something for me? Please bring my phone?"  
He nods. He gets up from the bed. She mentally thanks his maker, because in spite of all his non-eating ways, he really has a great rear. She admires it. He chuckles,"I know you are staring at my butt."  
"Well," she laughs, "It is a very nice butt!"  
He ties the belt to his robe and laughs, his rich baritone sending shivers up her arms, "In that case, thank you!"  
She grins and stretches her limbs, after he leaves, basking in this new development. He is a very careful lover, eager to learn and improve. And Merlin bless his violin playing and long fingers. He did say all husky and sexy, last night, in midst of her first orgasm, "This is sort of like playing an instrument. Touch the right places and she sings."  
She had agreed with a moan.

He was going up the stairs with her phone in his hand when it starts ringing. He looks down to see the name Ginny flashing. The redhead friend. He picks it up and says, "Hello?"  
Ginny stumbles in alarm, "Uh, who is this?"  
"Sherlock."  
She forgets what to say next as she starts wondering the various possibilities as to why he would pick her phone up. She shakes her head, "Uh, where is Hermione?"  
"Hold on."  
He walks up the stairs a bit faster. He goes in through the side door to see Hermione in the kitchen with a glass in her hand. He hands her phone, saying, "It is Ginny."  
Oh Merlin, Hermione already knows what Ginny is going to say. And yes, she is proved right when Ginny shouts, "WHY DID SHERLOCK HOLMES ANSWER YOUR PHONE? DID YOU FINALLY DO IT?"  
Hermione winces as her friends' shrill voice nearly kills her eardrum. She says, "Ginny! And yes."  
Ginny says, even louder, "OH MY GOD! I KNEW IT! I KNEW THIS WOULD HAPPEN! YES!"  
Hermione says, grinning, "Oh Merlin, Ginny, stop screaming!"  
"Sorry. I got excited."  
"This is better."  
"You and I need to meet right now!"  
"Right now? Really? It is seven o' clock."  
"Oh sorry. Well, I did forget I am busy today. Lunch, at Diagon Alley, tomorrow! Don't you dare say no!"  
"Okay! Okay."  
Hermione disconnects. She looks at Sherlock, who is leaning opposite her on the kitchen counter, with amusement written all over his face. She asks, "What?"  
He crosses his arms and says, shaking his curls, "It is funny."  
She grins, "It is. I am pretty sure John will probably shout "I knew it" too."  
"Yes. He will."  
Then he receives a text. From John. He opens the message and laughs. He says, "Well, we are right. He does know."  
"Why? What does he say?"  
He reads out the message, "You git. I knew it!"  
She laughs, as he joins in.

"What? Sorry I wasn't listening," Harry says distractedly, then when he glimpses the stormy expression on his assistant's face, "Levin, I am sorry, Ginny texted and…"  
Levin rolls his eyes, and starts again, "The fox was poisoned by aconite, or what is wolfsbane called by us. And the animal is a red fox, commonly found in all over the world, but the one we found is actually from a particular area in Czech Republic. The dirt stuck in its fur and claws said so."  
Harry stares at his assistant for a while, "Wait a minute…someone poisoned a fox from another country and then left it, or put it, in an abandoned factory. But why?"  
Levin shrugs, "Also about the apple we found, there was DNA in it. I had the sense to send it to a Muggle laboratory."  
Harry nods, deep in thought. What is going on?

"Oh crap, crap, crap!" Draco curses at the wind as he leaves the oppressive room to take a breather. He did promise his son the visit to the planetarium in Greenwich Park. His mother will be there in Diagon Alley any moment with Scorpius and he is nowhere near done with this meeting.  
He re-enters the room where he had been grumbling and scowling over alimony and custody for the last one hour with Astoria Malfoy. He was getting that divorce, no matter how much his erstwhile wife pouted or threw unnecessary tantrums. He is ready to pay her the entire Malfoy inheritance in gold if she gets off his back. And no way in hell was she getting custody of Scorpius.  
"But Draco!"  
"No."  
That two lines had been repeated a hundred times by now, Draco reckons. Astoria, ever the drama queen with her hands flying everywhere to her exaggerated facial expressions, and Draco with his stony expression to his stormy eyes, finally at nearly two hours later, reach a consensus.  
"Mr Draco Malfoy will have custody of your son Scorpius Malfoy and Mrs Astoria Malfoy nee Greengrass gets quarterly alimony," the family court decides. Case closed.  
Draco sighs in relief. He finally won this war. He exits the building, excited to see his son. He is finally a free man, he chuckles to himself. He enters the side alley to apparate to Diagon Alley, when he feels something blunt crash against his neck. He staggers as white hot pain shoots to his head and he falls, as darkness engulfs him.


	11. Chapter 11

It is so dark. Why is it like this? He can hear music again. Haunting, lilting, seductive. Suddenly something brushes against his torso. He clutches his midriff in shock. It felt like a hand. He is definite. He turns his head. Still nothing. Only the solid, oppressive darkness. Then the scene shifts.  
He is in a valley of flowers again. Too sunny, too colourful, it hurts his retinas. Blue flowers everywhere. He frowns. He has seen them before. He looks up and gets surprised. He is not under the sky but instead under a glass dome. A greenhouse? Then why does he feel soil under his bare feet? He crouches and tentatively touches a stalk. He peers closer. He knows this flower, he is sure. The drooping stalk and the bell shape is familiar. This are bluebells aren't they? He stands up straight again. What is he doing here?  
"Sherlock?" a soft feminine voice calls him from behind. He turns around to find Hermione seated on the ground dressed in some white material. He is really confused now. She beckons him to her. He obeys and seats opposite her.  
She does not say anything. She smiles up at him, tugging a smile out of him too. He thinks dream Hermione is even more beautiful than real Hermione. He reaches out and touches her hair. She puts her hand on his cheeks.  
But then, the scene changes again. The sunlight is gone, replaced by clouds and rain. The flowers have turned to ash. And Hermione lay in his arms, brown eyes vacant and unseeing, and her white dress blood-soaked. He stares with his chest tight, and breathe scarce. _What?_  
The rain and blood mix with the ash and makes a puddle around him. He finds himself crying. A booming laughter fills the air. He looks up to find Moriarty standing at a distance. He points at the dead body in Sherlock's arms and shouts, "How will you save her?"  
"No!" Sherlock cries as he wakes up. He opens his eyes and is glad that he is in his living room. He must have dozed off. He blinks and shakes his head. That was a truly disturbing dream. Hermione is okay and alive and out with her former sister-in-law. As he brings his hands closer to rub his face, he notices the ring she gave him glowing again. He takes it off and stares at the glowing runes engraved on it. He frowns, what do they mean and why are they glowing?  
He stands up, maybe he will find the answer on her bookshelf. He heads to her apartment.

"Hermione? Do you mind if I head to Slug and Jiggers Apothecary? I need to pick up some potion ingredients," Ginny asks, dragging Albus along.  
Hermione and Rose acquiesce. Both excited to accompany Ginny: Hermione does need to replenish ingredients and to Rose every magical shop visit was always welcome.  
Albus asks, "What is an apothecary?"  
Rose, raises her chin, and replies, adopting a haughtier tone, "In Muggle terms it means a druggist or pharmacist, then some witch or wizard adopted the meaning to magical potions, since Muggle medicine and magic potions are quite similar."  
Albus nods, utterly impressed by his cousins' knowledge. Ginny grins, "Yes, you are Granger material already Rose! That reminded me so much of a twelve-year old Hermione Granger!"  
Hermione coyly smiles. Hearing praise about one's offspring is always a good thing.  
As soon as they enter the apothecary, the children run off to explore with Ginny warning them not to poke anything. Hermione offers, "I will look after them, you do your shopping."  
Rose shouts from a corner, "Mom! Come look at this!"  
Hermione gets to her daughter to find her pointing her finger at a cauldron bubbling and boiling and an occasional heart-shaped bubbles popping over it. She frowns, she can guess what that is. Amortentia, an old foe.  
An elderly woman with way too much make-up on says to Rose, "Say, little lady, do you want a vial? To charm your prince?"  
Hermione scowls, gritting her teeth, "She is eight."  
The lady smirks at her, "What about you ma'am? Maybe I can sell you some for your husband?"  
Rose chirps, "Oh, dad and mum are divorced."  
Hermione stares at her daughter in disbelief. She cannot believe her own flesh and blood sold her out like that. The lady goes, "Oh. Then you definitely need this. Women of your age and time, so lonely, so lonely…"  
"Mum! Is it true that this potion smells different to everybody?" Rose asks just in time because Hermione was prepared to stupefy the old hag anytime.  
She smiles, "Yep."  
"What do you smell mum?"  
"Yes ma'am, what do you smell?" the old lady goes, red lips parting to show yellow teeth and pencilled on eyebrows arching way beyond their natural arch.  
"Yeah, what is it that you smell?" Ginny joins in from nowhere.  
Hermione looks over her shoulder to see Ginny grinning like a gargoyle. She shoots daggers at the redhead, whose mirth doesn't lessen any less. She has no option now. She knows Ginny will not let her leave unless she sniffs some of that potion.  
She gets closer to the cauldron. The last sniff she ever had was of peppermint toothpaste and freshly cut grass. Her necks gets warm at that memory. That really was so long ago. She leans and takes a sniff. Her eyes widen. No.  
Dusty books. Tea. And…the way his skin smells when he is aroused.  
Oh fuck.  
She races out of the shop. She needs fresh air. She needs to get that scent out of her lungs. She can hear Ginny calling after her. She can hear her daughter. But she cannot stop.  
Just what she feared. It happened. She knew it might happen. But she was getting so good at ignoring those feelings. Stupid potion! This is why she hates love potions!  
She feels like she dug her own grave when she started falling in love with Sherlock bloody moronic Holmes.  
Then her phone starts ringing. Her breathe stops. If the universe loves her, it will not be him. She tentatively takes out the phone from her handbag. She looks at the screen and frowns. It is an unknown number. She only knows one person who calls from unknown numbers. It is not him, is it? She takes two deep breathes and answers it. She whispers, "Hello?" fearing the worst.  
"Hello, Hermione? This is Narcissa Malfoy."  
She frowns. Why is Draco Malfoy's mother calling her?

She had left the keys to her apartment with him. He lets himself in and heads straight to the overstuffed bookshelf. If it was anyone else, he would have got a migraine by now trying to locate a book pertaining to his query. He smiles as he realises just how super organised she is, so of course the rune books take him little effort to find: they are all neatly stacked in a corner.  
'An Introduction to Runes: A Complete Guide' catches his attention. This might be helpful. He takes it out and sits down on the floor. The book is a foot long and might be heavier than two bricks stacked together.  
It takes him a while, but he finds the runes he is looking for. There were four symbols on his ring. A 'X' symbol called gebo, a fork-like rune called algiz, an R shaped rune called raidho and an arrow pointing upward called tiwaz. He wonders what her reasons were as he reads the translation of each: gebo literally meant gift (she gifted him the ring), algiz translated to protection (he wonders if such charms work), raidho meant journey (could she mean this path they are on?) and tiewaz means…justice?  
He closes the book and huffs. Runes are way too complicated. It'd be nice if she was here, then he could actually decipher why the ring glowed like that.  
"Oh hello there."  
Sherlock turns around to see Harry Potter standing there, grinning, with his trademark messy hair and his silent, stoic assistant Levin Dobrev. Sherlock gets to his feet. He says, "Hermione isn't here."  
"Oh yeah, I know. I came looking for you. I need your help with something."  
Sherlock glances at the runes book. He says as inspiration dawns, "I will help you with whatever you need if you help me with something."  
"Okay, so what do you need?"  
Sherlock picks up the book and hands it to Harry. Harry takes it and gulps. Runes, he hated runes. He confesses, "I am not good at them. But Levin is," he swiftly passes over the book to his assistant.  
Levin mentally rolls his eyes. He asks, "What are the runes that need understanding?"  
"Gebo, algaiz, rydo and tywaz," Sherlock says.  
Levin fixes his glasses and stares sharply at Sherlock, "No. They are pronounced gay-boo, ahl-geez, rye-ee-does and tee-vaz."  
Sherlock scowls and crosses his arms, "I have never even seen runes before this, so excuse my slip of tongue Mr. Dobrev."  
In the staring match between Sherlock and Levin, Harry feels the temperature drop considerably. He clears his throat, "Levin?"  
"Oh yes," he caresses the spine of the book ("Ravenclaws and books," Harry thinks), "gebo means to exchange gifts, the gravity of equals and opposites. The exchange of gifts, whether physical or otherwise, is a highly meaningful act, as is the idea of trade. The need for exchanged energies and powers to remain equal in amounts is at the heart of the rune Gebo. Gebo is also tied deeply to the exchange of sexual energies between male and female, and so it deeply governs mystical union, sacred oaths of marriage and sex magic.  
"Algiz is the Rune of the essential link or connection with the patterns of divine or archetypal consciousness. Rune of the possible danger of realizing this link when unprepared. Courage in the face of fear is central, not the absence of fear, because fear may or may not be a warning to us that protection and defensiveness is necessary.  
"Raidho is the rune of ordered movement of energies in time and space as it pertains to human awareness. It is the rune of leading by example and of actions that speak louder than words. It represents our deepest personal life journey.  
"Tiwaz is the rune of the balance and justice ruled from a higher rationality. The rune of sacrifice of the individual (self) for well-being of the whole (society)."  
Levin stops to see two flabbergasted men staring at him. He asks, "What?"  
"You could have been a great professor," Sherlock comments sincerely. He is truly impressed.  
"I plan to. My retirement plans involve teaching at Hogwarts," Levin says, a bit shyly perhaps.  
"You'd be great at it," Harry beams.  
"So, what would it signify if you put all of these together?" Sherlock asks, then, on afterthought, hands Levin the ring.  
Levin inspects the ring closely. After a few beats, he says, "I might not be sure, but the combination of the four runes of gebo, algiz, raidho and tiwaz might mean a connection of a highest level. An exchange of fears, love and courage. It calls for protection on the wearer. A call on their righteousness and a prayer that their deeds signify that in their journey of life. May I ask where did you get this from?"  
"Um," Sherlock scratches his neck, "Uh, it was a birthday gift, from Hermione to me."  
"Gebo is also tied deeply to the exchange of sexual energies between male and female, and so it deeply governs mystical union, sacred oaths of marriage and sex magic," Harry thinks and gets downright uncomfortable. He says out loud, "That is a very thoughtful gift."  
Levin gives the ring back to Sherlock who falls into deep thought. An exchange, a connection, protection and righteousness. She gave a whole lot of thought behind this. Is this why the ring glows every time he has dreams he cannot explain? And the flowers, do those have meaning as well? Harry wants to start talking again but the look on Sherlock's face stops him. Seems like he is really trying to figure something out. Before he can say anything at all, Sherlock asks, "What do you know about bluebells?"  
"They are a flower," Harry replies.  
"Bluebell flames?" Levin offers.  
"Oh yeah, bluebell flames, Hermione was very good at conjuring those!" Harry says.  
Something clicks in Sherlock's brain. But why would his conscious choose that flower out of all to associate with her? He knows the answer is out there but he was failing to grasp it. It is frustrating!  
Harry, who is failing to take it any longer, says, "Sherlock? We helped, now it is your turn."  
"What? Yes, yes. What do you need?" he says, too fast. Maybe he needs distraction. Maybe when he least expects it, the answer, the obvious solution will hit him.  
So Harry recounts the story from how Percy Weasley's office was broken into to the little girl in the hospital.  
"So—" Harry doesn't get to finish what he wanted to say when his phone starts ringing. He answers. It wasn't a long conversation. When he ends it, his emerald eyes are wide and gleaming, "The little girl is awake!"

**A/N. Forgiveness for the delay. *hangs head in shame* Also, all my rune knowledge is from the internet. (It is such a fascinating subject!) So please, all of you out there with more and solid knowledge of runes, forgive me if I fucked up. Like Jon Snow, I know nothing. I only did what the great Lord Google showed me.**


End file.
